


Wrapped in Silk

by Terabyte_my_ass



Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slavery, Slow Burn, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-17 22:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16982904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terabyte_my_ass/pseuds/Terabyte_my_ass
Summary: When the new prince takes over, he illegalizes and criminalizes slavery.  Yet what does a young slave do after having been in chains since birth?**SEVERE TRIGGER WARNINGS**





	1. A Slave

**Author's Note:**

> **SEVERE TRIGGER WARNINGS**

Another strip of pain lanced down his back. Surely he was bleeding by now. The whip whistled again and this time he let himself grunt. Over and over the whip struck and it became harder and harder for him to keep quiet. 

They wanted him to scream, but he had been forbidden to do so. The master had commanded him to be silent for his punishment, he did not want to be disturbed. Only the men would not stop until he was screaming, as always. He could not defy his master yet could not obey the command. And so as the whip came down again, he accepted his fate. He howled, the leather seeming to strip him down to the core and break him. It didn’t stop, as it usually did. They laughed and switched off, a new man, more powerful, stepping up to the slave to start anew.

The slave screamed, struggling in his bonds as the whip screamed with him. His wrists were crossed above his head, the ropes digging in and burning deeper marks over his scars. His legs were bound apart and he helplessly kicked at the ground, trying desperately to get away. Eventually his body tired itself out, his throat burned itself out, and he went slack as the men continued to laugh and torture him. He was not sure how long the whip laid into him, only hoped that perhaps this time it would end his life. He wanted to pass out, as he had those many years ago a whip had first touched his skin. But his mind stayed conscious, albeit blurry, and ran on like the tears down his face.

Through the tears he saw the master come down the stone steps, pace leisurely but face alight with rage. He prowled closer and without any warning, his ironclad boot came up into the slave’s fragile, hanging balls. The slave finally lost himself to the pain.


	2. Freedom?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SEVERE TRIGGER WARNINGS**

The slave woke up to pain. Pain in his wrists and around his ankles was due to the manacles holding him up. The pain in his back was due to his punishment, of which the reason had become fuzzy. Something about spilling the master’s drink? The pain in his body was due to the cold and damp of the dungeons causing his bones to ache. But the worst pain, worse than the washed and dressed and healing wounds on his back, was from his groin. With years of sexual servitude under his belt, he knew how to contract the muscles in his groin and did so, gasping as the pain intensified. Something was damaged down there, maybe permanently, but he could not see anything in the dim lighting nor the position he was being held in.

He let his eyes close and slipped into a meditative sort of shallow sleep. Experience told him this would help him heal while letting him rouse if another person came to visit.

The slave’s life had started fairly, his mother being an average dam and his father a formidable stud. He had been raised and trained as a house slave with 13 other children. They were taught to obey a master’s word perfectly and at the age of seven, knew how to cook and clean to the standards of nobles. That was when he had first been sold. He went to a simple estate for a small and wealthy family and was there tutored by the butler. He learned etiquette and proper language, although was still not taught how to read. He stayed there when the butler passed away and for several more years until a visiting cousin of the lady of the estate visited. He took an interest in the slave and bought him to be a bed warmer. From there, the slave learned how to pleasure men and women alike, and learned a whole new set of mannerisms. Then, in a freak carriage accident, the lord and lady died, leaving the slave to their children. With the oldest being just over five, they had no use for a pleasure slave then or anytime soon. So he was auctioned off to a young mistress of a count at 17 years of age.

Except this mistress was nothing like his previous owners. She had been cold-hearted and sadistic, looking to use him for the pleasures of her fantasies. These fantasies involved seeing him tied down and fucked by large cocks, without preparation. She taught him the feeling of a flogger, a paddle, a cane. She forced orgasms out of him and then played roughly with his cock. He had thought he was miserable, but back then he did not know true misery. He would do anything to go back to that mistress now.

When she got bored of him, she had sold him to the first slave traders that she could find. These traders were no more than a group of thugs who abused the slaves in their care, traveling with them in carts of filth and taking pleasure from them in the forms of sex and pain. They especially liked to see his delicate face cry. Slave traders of these kinds bought used up slaves and sold their wares to sketchy characters in small, cramp shops and labor intensive farms. He was not sold to any shop or farm, but instead passed between groups of slave traders. Each group wanted to see him in pain, wanted to hear his screams. They starved and beat and raped the slave.

After a couple months with the slave traders, he was sold to a young man who cleaned him and gave him a meal. Grateful, the slave hoped this man would be his new master, yet it was not to be. He was soon given over to a duke as a birthday gift, and there he became a house slave once more. But this duke was very cruel and let his men punish the slave for every little offense. That is how he found himself often injured and chained up in the dungeons. And after his worse beating yet, the slave waited in the dungeons whether for the master or death, he did not know.

Hours turned into a day, a day turned into two as the slave waited. No one came down to feed or water him, nor to redress his wounds. He could smell the infection over the smell of his own piss and fever caused him to fade in and out of sleep. Then he heard the sounds of shouting and boots upon the stone steps. Torchlight burnt into his eyes yet he forced them to stay open, wanting to know whether he would be treated or tortured some more. But the men who came down the stairs surprised him.

Instead of the purples and reds of the duke’s men, these men wore blue and yellow. They carried bloodied blades and maces and wore faces of anger. The slave was scared as the men spread out through the dungeons, for he knew that he was the only one down here. The duke much preferred executing his enemies. Two men entered his cell, the door having been left open, and the slave felt himself pissing in fear. One man wrinkled his nose and stopped while the other approached him with his sword drawn. The slave struggled against his chain - suddenly death didn’t sound like a good option.

“It’s okay,” the man approaching him said with a gruff voice. “We won’t hurt you. We’re going to get you out of here.”

The slave said nothing. He could remember the last time he had spoken had been with the mistress, when he had learned that pleading only brought harsher treatment.

Some more men came to his cell. “The dungeons are empty,” one said. “Let’s grab that one and go.” The slaves shackles were released and he found himself collapsing to the dirty floor, his legs unable to support him. Two men picked him up, muttering about how badly he stank, and then they were moving.

They went up the stairs into the small castle. The slave hadn’t seen anything when he had first arrived, having been blindfolded so he could not find his way out of he had managed to escape. Now he looked around at the display of wealth, expensive tapestries and rugs decorating the stone surfaces, shining gold and silver vases upon glass tables held beautiful boutiques of flowers, in the dining room they passed through were long and polished oak tables. And along the way, juxtaposing the beauty of the castle, were dead bodies and blood strewn carelessly against walls and over tables. They dead all wore the colors of the duke’s men, obviously outmatched by the soldiers. More soldiers joined the party with the slave carrying bloodied weapons and speaking in loud voices.

As he was moved around, his back and groin jostled around, pain and fever tried to take over his mind. Before long, they reached the front doors of the castle and for the first time since coming to the duke, the slave saw sunlight. It blinded him but felt warm on his skin. The fresh air made him dizzy but as a breeze blew by, he realized he was naked in the cool air of late autumn. The soldiers seemed unmoved by the weather and laid him down on his side, thankfully, in the grass. A blanket was draped over him as he was reveling in the soft itchiness of the cool grass. Perhaps this was a dream, cruelly reminding him of what he could not have, yet he didn’t care at the moment as this was the best dream he’s had in a long time. There was a voice above him, softer than the bellows of soldiers and the blanket was removed, immediately causing his whole body to shiver. Hands roamed over his body, warm and gentle.

“... infection has set in,” the voice was saying. The hands moved over his hips and paused, then forward to fondle his aching groin. “One testicle is stuck inside the body.” That would explain his pain.

The blanket was removed and then a knee and boot were before his face. Too tired to flinch, the slave slowly tilted his head. The soldier’s face swam in and out of view but his voice was clear.

“The new prince has declared slavery illegal. Once we get to a blacksmith, your slave collar will be removed and you shall be a free man.”

He was definitely dreaming.


	3. The Duke’s Betrayal

“How could he?” Prince Paxton paced his council meeting room, seething. Only he and his advisor, close friend to the late king, occupied the large room. Acor stayed silent while the prince let out his tantrum in relative privacy, waiting for the temper to die down before he risked his own head being bitten off.

“My own cousin plotting to kill me. Me! As if. How did he think he would get the people’s loyalty? Huh? Fucking power hungry little maggot. I want to strangle his fat neck...”

Paxton was, of course, speaking of the large Duke of Timberly. The duke was his direct cousin and much, much older at 52. Had the prince not been of age, the duke would have taken over the kingdom when the old king passed a couple months ago. Yet the prince’s 18th birthday was only a couple days after the king’s passing so the council denied the duke access to the throne. And despite now being the ruler of the kingdom, Paxton choose to continue with the title of Prince.

Yet the duke must’ve resented Paxton for taking over the throne, for a young page had shown up that morning with news that the duke planned on murdering the prince during next week’s Harvest Festival. And that’s how the prince and his advisor ended up speaking - well, the prince yelling and the advisor listening - in the council meeting room. 

——

A warrant was put out for the Duke of Timberly’s arrest and within the hour, 150 of the royal soldiers were marching East. The prince continued on his day eagerly awaiting news of the duke’s arrest. He would be very satisfied sentencing his cousin. Yet when news did arrive, it wasn’t good.

A page approached him in the gardens where he attended to the bed of snapdragons.

“Your Highness,” the page addressed him softly. “A soldier from Timberly has arrived.”

Swiftly, Paxton left the page in the gardens and walked to the back entrance to his throne room. After all, the ruler of the country couldn’t be seen running around like a child anymore. Upon settling on his throne, heart pounding, Paxton signaled for the soldiers to let the messenger in.

The soldier was in his mid-thirties, with shoulder length brown hair and a scruffy goatee. His cheekbones were sharp and eyes intelligent. He still had splatters if blood on his rumpled uniform, giving him a barbarian sort of look. Handsome, Paxton thought, then payed attention to what the soldier was saying.

“Your Highness.” A deep bow from the waist. “Upon arrival, we were immediately attacked by the Duke’s men. We charged the castle and took it, but the Duke had already killed himself by poison when we arrived. Only a few of his men were captured, most chose to fight than surrender. The Duke had no prisoners but one slave, who is badly injured. Half the men shall return within the night with the slave and prisoners.”

Paxton dismisses the soldier to get cleaned up and then pondered on the news. So his cousin had killed himself, proving his guilt. Most likely, none of his men would confess, by stubbornness or ignorance he did not know. Acor would, of course, suggest torture but Paxton was a far cry from his father. Which would mean the slave would have to be able to answer his questions. That is, if he survived the journey. The soldier said he was badly injured.

It was dinner time, but Paxton didn’t feel like entertaining tonight. Giving orders to the captain of the guards to alert him when the troops arrived back, he retired early. Trying to calm his racing mind, he read up on the history and territory of Timberly, as he would have to directly rule over the area until a replacement was found. Dinner was delivered to his room and he snacked, but soon finished his reading and got up, feeling restless. The sun had set, but he knew he could not sleep with the energy thrumming through his body. But he did not know when the soldiers would arrive and no sleep was worse than little sleep. So he banked the fire and stripped and got ready for bed.

The sheets felt cool around his naked body and the dimming fireplace cast a warm glow in the room. Minutes went by with Paxton staring at nothing. Bored, he did the one thing that he knew would get him some sleep.

His hand crept downwards and slowly wrapped around his limp penis. He groaned as he softly began to stimulate it. Fully grown, it was a nice size that he could stroke his hand over again and again. He pushed the blankets down to his ankles, exposing his hard length. He carefully pulled his foreskin down, letting the head peek out, already shiny with fluids. He dragged a fingertip in a circle around the head and felt his legs kick out. His other hand went down to caress his balls, which were tight to his body. Then he imagined the soldier from before, hard muscled chest covered by a sheen of sweat, looking down on the prince with a predatory gleam in his eyes. His long cock would be held by a large, calloused hand and full balls would hang beneath him. Paxton’s breathing increased as he imagined the soldier leaning down to take his young cock into his mouth, and he shot off with that image in mind.

Sated, Paxton carefully scooped his semen off his stomach and licked his fingers clean. He had found he actually liked the taste some months ago when curiosity had gotten the better of him. He pulled the blanket over his body and turned on his side and drifted off to sleep.


	4. A Doctor (or Physician if you’re rich)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SEVERE TRIGGER WARNINGS**

The soldiers took the slave in a cart. Even wrapped in a blanket, the slave shivered, for the fever was back and he was also scared. A couple soldiers, bloodied and injured, also rode in the cart and a man, the one who must be some kind of doctor, watched over them. As time went on and the light faded from the sky, the slave fought the sleep that threatened to take him. It had been too long since he had seen green, and with the autumn came the change of color too. Evergreens stood out in the sea of muted oranges, yellows, and reds. The slave was glad they traveled parallel to the edge of the forest, for he could spot squirrels and songbirds within the trees. A sound other than the clacking of hooves laughter of soldiers startled him, and he looked up to see a V of geese passing overhead. Despite his fear, the outside world provided some comfort and soon he could no longer keep his eyes open, falling into a shallow slumber.

The slave woke up when the cart stopped. Before him stood a wall, as tall as the sky, it seemed. Turning around, he saw the castle, bigger than any castle he had ever heard about. Torchlight lit it up from the inside, probably staving off the chill of the night. Suddenly, the slave realized he was both freezing and burning up at the same time. Pondering what to do about it, his mind slow and dull from fever, he barely noticed when soldiers began unloading their injured from the cart. He did notice, however, when hands lifted him from the cart and, settling his weight between the two of them, carried him towards the castle.

When he realized where he was going, the slave freaked out. While it went against all the training he’d ever had, instincts took over and told him to run, get away. For the slave couldn’t do it, couldn’t go back to the dankness of a dungeon, couldn’t handle the beatings and the torture anymore. The soldiers cursed as his flailing limbs hit them in the face and the slave collapsed to the ground. Too weak to even crawl. The slave continued to struggle and screamed, hoping that someone, anyone would prevent what was happening.

More soldiers rushed over, but that was not what he wanted. Soldiers would not give him mercy. Then the man, the Doctor, was there trying to get close while avoiding his limbs. But by now the slave had used up all his energy and went limp, finally accepting his fate for what it would be. A life full of agony and desperation. But he was a slave, he had no right to protest. He had no rights in general.

Voices, speaking to him or others he didn’t know, nor did he care. Sounds and colors were muted and he felt someone pick him up, his body slack like a corpse. A torchlight was brought over and he closed his eyes against the light, and then they were moving. It seemed like they walked forever, then there were steps. More pain as he was jostled about. Then he was laid down on something, thankfully on his stomach, and cold immediately seeped through the blanket and into his body. More voices. This is it, they’ve handed me over to the torturers. He was uncovered and then the dirty bandages over his back were removed. He barely flinched when water burned into his back, and a hand was scrubbing over his wounds. It hurt, almost as bad as when the wounds were inflicted. Then he found strength to struggle anew as something burned into his back. It felt like a giant poker, opening him up again. He would swear he could hear his back sizzling over his hoarse screams. The men merely pinned him down while more and more of the stuff, liquid since it dripped down his sides, was poured onto his back. After what seemed like ages it stopped, and then he was lifted and someone was wrapping a bandage around his body. Around and around it wound tightly and never seemed to stop. He knew it was the fever making things spin. Then he was on the table again, and there were hands pinning him down. This was it then, they would start right away. And they did. Someone was touching his taint and then his ball and oh god. They were digging around, digging into him and it was agony worse than anything he could remember. His screams echoed down the halls as they continued to dig and dig and dig. Sometime during that he passed out.

The slave floated blissfully on nothing. It was dark and quiet and still. Here was heaven, this limbo. It was here that he could escape all the hardships of the world. Here there was nothing that could touch him, that could hurt him. He saw no faces and heard no voices in the endless void. He was all alone, and that is exactly how he wanted it.

He basked for awhile, enjoying the peace while it lasted. He knew his torturers would eventually find something to wake him, like dumping his body into a tub of freezing water or putting glowing embers onto his back. But the longer he floated, the more he felt a wiggling sense of anxiety. It was not normal for people to give him this much time. Even with that first mistress, the kindest of all the pain-givers, would not let him rest for very long. The spark of anxiety turned into a flame, and then it was a roaring forest fire, alighting his whole body with tension.

The doctor fell over as the slave, sweating and heart pounding, sprang from the bed and ran. His eyes hadn’t even opened to give the doctor a warning. But as the slave ran, as best he could on weakened legs, the blanket tangled around him and he crashed to the floor. By now all four of the patients were watching the slave as he put his back against the wall and stared around with wide eyes. He was shivering and had his lips pulled back in a snarl. Like a wild animal, trapped.

The doctor stretched his hands out, palms up, and slowly approached the creature. For that was what the slave was right now, hurt and afraid. He tried to keep eye contact with the slave, but those eyes kept darting around to each individual in the room. It hissed as the doctor approached and so he stopped and slowly backed up towards the door. The slave’s eyes followed him but the slave made no move to escape, just huddled there pitifully. The doctor reached the door and then locked it. It would prevent any soldiers from coming in and spooking the slave, he hoped.

Meanwhile, the slave had been surveying the room with quick glances and flickering eyes. The men in the beds, three were soldiers from the cart and the other was a young, skinny boy. None of the had moved, they were just watching him. So he turned most of his attention to the other threat in the room. He guessed the man was a doctor, as the soldiers were injured and the boy looked quite sickly. But this was a different doctor than the one from the cart. Had he been able to recoil back then, he would have. For he hated doctors. They weren’t bad when he was younger but then he ran into a doctor with the slave traders, who had decided to run experiments on him. And then, the young doctor with his master, or he guesses previous master, had been cold and cynical, sneering at him, thinking that treating a slave was beneath him. Perhaps it was. But this doctor was older, in his forties, and had laugh lines around his eyes. His long hair was tied back beneath expensive looking glasses. His tunic was simple, done in the colors of his new master.

Suddenly, his hands were grabbing at his throat. His naked throat. They had removed his collar. The collar, which had protected him from worse treatment, reminding the slave traders that he was more valuable whole and the torturers that his master would have their heads if they mutilated him too much.

“Hey,” the doctor whispered, breaking through his thoughts. “Hey, hey.... it’s alright. You’re safe.” The slave snarled again, but the doctor was getting blurry behind the tears welling in his eyes. “We took your collar because you’re free now. You’re safe.” The doctor was approaching and the slave bared his teeth farther even as tears began to fall. But he was weak, despite having been hydrated a bit, and he could only back up and press himself into the corner of the room. He didn’t believe the doctor’s words. What else could he be, except a slave? His new master was letting him get cozy, then would rip everything away, leaving him in worse despair. No, he couldn’t trust anyone, least of all this doctor. He would be a good slave, the best slave, and not earn punishment. That was the best way to please his master, not this notion of freedom.

The doctor was getting closer. The slave let out a growl, his last attempt to deter the doctor. But it was not to be, as the doctor slowly continued to reach out to the slave. He was tempted to bite the hand, but only for a second. He would not start on his master’s good side if he did that. Then the doctor was touching him, touching his shoulder. The slave’s shivers got stronger as the doctor kept getting closer. And closer. The slave’s breathing became labored as the doctor crowded in on him and pinned him in the corner.

Then arms were around him, pulling him toward the warm body. The slave stiffened. “You’re safe,” the doctor rumbled. “Be good here and you’ll be safe.” The slave nodded but the doctor didn’t move. He held the slave for a couple minutes more waiting for the slave to relax. But the slave stayed tense and shivered still.

Hours later, the doctor had managed to get some broth and water into the slave. Soldiers occasionally passed in and out to visit the other patients, but other than that it was quiet. The doctor himself rested in a chair by the door, gently snoozing. On the other hand, the slave lay under his blankets, fighting sleep and stuff as a board. He was scared that falling asleep would cause him to wake and realize this was just a dream - or the beginning of another nightmare. But the doctor had said that all he needed to do was be good. So he would be.

A young boy of about 12 stepped through the door and roused the doctor. The slave sat up to watch as the boy whispered in the doctor’s ear and then departed.

“The Prince wants to see you, now that you’re feeling better.”

The Prince? Could he perhaps be the slave’s new master? Don’t be presumptuous, he chided himself. He would be lucky enough not to be executed on the spot, with as poor of a slave he had been as the Duke’s.

With the help of the doctor, the slave got to his feet, dressed in a clean white tunic and breeches, then leaned on the doctor out the door and into the castle proper. While the doctor’s room had been lined with worn wood and brick, a tall hallway of stone and torchlight met him. It seemed the doctor’s room was somewhere in the middle of the castle, as this hall too did not have any windows. Outside the door, two soldiers flanked them with their weapons sheathed as they moved slowly through the castle. Stairs and hallways merged together, sometimes they went up, sometimes they went down. The hallways all varied in length and width but all were tall, at least twice the height of himself. Never would he be able to find his way back. When they did pass by a window, the slave looked out to see that it was perhaps early morning or late evening, the sun casting the yellow lights across the sky.

Eventually they arrived in a large room, circular in design and documents of importance covered the walls. Another boy, maybe around 17, nodded as they entered and led them before the two giant doors on the other side of the room. He signaled the guards and the doors opened, then preceded the doctor and the slave into the largest and grandest room the slave had ever seen.

“Prince Paxton, o’ Great Ruler of Elkreign, I present to you the physician and the former Duke of Timberly’s slave,” the boy practically yelled to the vaulted ceiling.

The rich call doctors physicians? snickered a soft voice in the back of the slave’s mind. But the larger part of him was slamming his body to the ground, on his knees with his arms crossed behind him and his chin tucked into his chest. His gaze was fixed on the floor but he trembled as he could feel the Prince staring at him. He only hoped he was presentable enough.

There was no sound for a solid minute, in which the slave took to analyze his situation. Only soldiers, guards he guessed they would be categorized as, stood around the perimeter of the room. He had caught a glimpse of the Prince upon his throne - he had the tan, lean body of a young soldier rather than a noble. His brown hair had been hanging to his shoulders but waved to frame his face nicely. A delicate gold circlet had sat on his head, and he wore a gold tunic with tight blue breeches. Overall attractive, and perhaps the nicest looking noble he had yet to meet. Not that any noble he has met had been ugly, per se. It was just—

“Well come here,” the Prince demanded with so much authority, the slave thought his heart might’ve stopped. Quickly, he picked himself up and, hunched over, he limped his way towards the Prince, heart rate accelerating with every step.

“Stop.” Again that voice. He felt he might piss himself, but surely that would only make the prince mad. “Look at me.” Slowly, the slave raised his eyes to about the level of the Prince’s neck but couldn’t help seeing in his peripheral the Prince’s eyes. Well, eye. His one purple eye.


	5. Audience

Paxton milled about the castle, having nothing in particular to do. Well, scratch that, he had a tonne of things to do, he just didn’t feel like doing any of them. Acor had already berated him about needing to do some urgent things, but for right now, Paxton couldn’t be bothered. He wanted to do something fun. Then a thought came to him.

When the duke’s men had been brought back, none of them had admitted to knowing of the duke’s plans. It didn’t really matter anymore, as the duke was dead, but they would spend a couple months behind bars for attacking the royal forces. But that had been two days ago, and Paxton hadn’t seen the slave that was brought in. Monty, the castle’s physician, had reported the man was still sleeping, but the infection was now gone. He would be placed on his feet once he was questioned about the Duke.

But now Paxton was bored and, hoping perhaps that the former slave was awake, he headed in the direction of the infirmary. As always, two of his Lion Guard followed silently behind him.

The door was closed when he arrived, and quietly, the prince snuck in with his guards. On some beds were soldiers from the raid on Timberly and a page with pneumonia slept nearby. The injured soldiers saluted the prince as best they could but with a hand signal from Paxton, they relaxed a bit. However, laying back down would be too rude. Monty was sitting in front of another bed with his back to the door, so he didn’t realize the prince had entered. Paxton waited a bit impatiently for Monty to move so he could see the former slave.

Finally, Monty turned around. Startled, it took him a moment before he bowed clumsily before Paxton. He opened his mouth to speak.

“You’re fine,” Paxton said with a wave of his hand. “Let me see him.”

Wordlessly, Monty stepped aside. He was, perhaps, the one most familiar with the prince, after having to care for him after many battles. But Prince Paxton wasn’t in the mood to ponder his relationship with Monty. He approached the bed to have a good look at the man.

The man was laying on his stomach with his head turned away from the Paxton. His long black hair was pulled aside in a messy braid. It was pretty dirty, as he hadn’t had a bath since arriving and who knew how long ago he had had a bath as the duke’s slave. His back was covered in a clean layer of gauze and a blanket was settled over his hips and legs. The man was very pale and skinny, his bones almost poking through his skin.

Paxton was disgusted. The treatment of the poor thing was worse than that of a bug. While his father had never kept slave’s in the castle, plenty of guests had brought their slaves. Either beautifully graceful or impressively muscled, each slave had been healthy and cared for. This man looked like he had been tossed into the garbage and left to rot.

“He’s looking much better than when he first arrived,” Monty said from behind him. “I’ve been able to get some water and broth into him. I suspect he’ll wake soon.”

Paxton nodded. He had been eager to hear what the former slave had known about the duke, but upon seeing the man, now doubted that he had been a pet or bodyguard. So with a short thanks and acknowledgement to his injured soldiers, Paxton left to find something else to eat up his time.

—-

With his breakfast came the news that the former slave was awake. Hurrying through his breakfast in his chambers, Paxton ran through a hundred different scenarios of how he would question the man. Would he have to bribe out the information? Or perhaps threaten it? That option made him feel sick - he’d always hated the idea of torture. And it seemed like the slave had already been tortured, with the list of bruises and scars Monty had given him. Perhaps this man knew something that the duke had wanted.

He hurried to the throne room rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He was rarely up and about so soon after waking. Guards saluted him in the hallways and the rare servant bowed low. He didn’t really enjoy the “royal treatment,” but it did come with his position. His father had raised him with both scholarly and military skills. The late king had even sent him to battle the neighboring kingdom Reddin for the Swamps. Elkreign has won, of course, but not without consequences. Many of Paxton’s friends among the soldiers had fallen, including his aging trainer.

But now was not the time to grieve over old scars. He sat upon his father’s throne - it still didn’t feel like his, even after all these months - and called on a page to fetch the former duke’s former slave. And then he waited. It’s not like he had a problem with waiting; patience was taught at a very young age for nobles and he had done well to learn. But right now, he was antsy for reasons he could not say. Perhaps it was because he’d never really interacted with a slave. He was curious, as they were people too, were they not? What made them slaves to others, except unfortunate circumstances? Maybe talking to this slave would answer some of his questions.

And then Little Loudmouth (Paxton had no idea what his name was - he probably should) was announcing Monty and the former slave. The slave almost folded in half as he got into what Paxton assumes was the proper slave position. His eyesight wasn’t the best at that distance and he hadn’t ever really studied the positions a slave should take. 

“We’ll come here,” Paxton said loudly, as that is what you had to be in this great room. And Paxton could only say that he scurried forward as fast as he could. He was the very definition of scurrying, limping low to the ground as fast as he could without running. His eyes were down and his hands were open at his sides. The very image of harmless. But when it didn’t look like the man was stopping, Paxton had to call out “Stop,” for any closer and the man would soon be climbing the stairs. It wouldn’t do for him to climb in his state. The man had resumed his earlier position but that simple wouldn’t do.

“Look at me,” he commanded, feeling a bit perplexed. None of his subjects had ever shown signs of such deep submission, even when they were kissing up to him. The man looked up and Paxton almost stopped breathing. For the man looked like a living skeleton. His face was haggard and bruised and his eyes sunken. The clothes were hanging off his body despite being almost perfect in length. Paxton could not imagine what the man might look like healthy, could not tell how old he was. Those storm grey eyes were blank, no emotion behind them. And he was shivering. Under Paxton’s scrutiny, he had begun to shiver which turned into violent shaking. He dropped to the floor and curled up into a ball.

Startled, Paxton hopped off his throne and descended the steps as Monty came up behind the former slave. He watched, a bit helplessly, as Monty talked to and soothed the man until he shivered a little less. Paxton smelled something in the air and realized the man had piss himself. Trying to save him from more embarrassment, Paxton dismisses them from the room but watching Monty support the slave away, he determined that he would make this former slave into a proper human being once more.

—-

Paxton entered the room behind the seated slave. Monty had agreed to let Paxton talk to the slave one-on-one after redressing his wounds and feeding him. Before that, a handmaiden had given it a bath so now Paxton walked in to the scent of rose perfume.

Moving around the table, Paxton studied the man, sitting straight up with his hands open and palms down on the table. His eyes were directed to the spot between his hands. He hadn’t acknowledged Paxton entering the room, hadn’t stood up and bowed as courtesy demanded. With a shrug, Paxton sat across from the man.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m not like the duke.”

No response. Okay, a different approach then.

“So you were a slave?”

A nod.

“Can you tell me your name?”

He shook his head.

“Why not?” When the slave didn’t answer right away, Paxton said, a little impatiently, “Are you mute?”

The man shook his head again and slowly parted his lips. Paxton leaned forward to hear a small rasping sound escape, and then the man was taken by a fit of coughs.

When the coughing subsided, Paxton thought for a couple minutes while the slave sat there, tense. He most likely wasn’t taught to read or write, so that option was void. Coming to a decision, the prince reached across the table and lifted the man’s chin so their eyes met. “I shall call you Manx, then and you will stay with me until you’ve recovered and can speak once more.” And with that, he left the man - Manx - sitting at the table. For he had seen something in the man’s grey eyes.

Something that was better tucked away in his memory.


	6. Manx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SAFE, SANE, and CONSENSUAL**

Monty was just outside the door when Paxton walked out. His hands were shaking slightly so he covered it up by clasping them together. “I’m taking him into my direct care. You will see to his health and I’ll make arrangements to set up a schedule.” Paxton only waited for Monty to nod before sweeping past him to the kitchens.

Paxton decided to directly tell Acor, Opal, and Mouse his plans. Opal was the head cook and Mouse was the captain of the guard. They would be responsible for passing the news down and dispelling gossip. Acor, of course, protested it, arguing that the prince had no time to babysit a dying slave. Opal merely looked at him with sad eyes and told him, “you have chosen a cruel fate, giving him that name.” Mouse didn’t say anything, but it wasn’t hard to deduce that he too thought the same as Opal. Paxton ignored them, confident that they were all wrong.

—-

Paxton reaches down to help Thorner, his sparring partner, off of the ground. But despite being knocked around by the prince, Thorner still has that goofy grin plastered onto his face. His buddies, watching from the sidelines, had been talking and snickering the whole time too. “Who’s next?” Paxton snarled, feeling frustrated and fed-up.

“Actually,” Pippin says, looking up at the sun, “we have other things to do.” The boys snicker at the buff trainee’s “joke.” Then they were running away, Thorner hot on their heels, laughing heinously. Muttering under his breath about proper titles, Paxton gathers his gear and heads to the barracks to put away the weapons. Guards, warriors, and trainees were all giving him sly looks, which Paxton ignored. He had done nothing to embarrass himself recently and he’d be darned if he acted like so.

For some reason, Paxton decided to check his bag before he left the barracks. He almost never did, confident that no one was stupid enough to steal from the prince amongst all the soldiers. But instead of finding his gold missing, he found a folded piece of parchment. Bold lettering, appearing as if a child had written it, adorned the page in a few short sentences.

My dearest Prince,  
Hopefully the trainees have kept you busy enough that you do not receive this before 10 ‘o clock.  
I await you where the Elk Reigns.  
Be loud.  
Your Secret  
P.S. the entire barracks know more than you do

 

Paxton’s “Secret” wasn’t very good at keeping his own secrets. Apparently he had told everyone in the barracks to keep Paxton occupied while he did Heavens-know-what where the “Elk Reigns.” Sighing, but in a considerably better mood, Paxton packed up and headed to the castle proper.

Opening his chambers door loudly, Paxton stomped into the room and threw his bag on a chair. Then he marched over to his bedroom and yanked open the door, his jaw dropping as he took in the scene before him.

On his bed was a young man. His round face and long limbs gave him an ageless appearance. And it was that round face, eyes covered by a blindfold, and those long limbs, tied to the four corners of Paxton’s bed, that drew the prince closer. His trussed up partner was spread-eagle on his bed, blindfolded and naked except for a tastefully positioned silk sheet over the groin. There was a growing lump beneath the silk. And, being quite youthful himself, Paxton was by now straining at his breeches.

“M’lord?” The man on the bed spoke with an interesting accent.

“Yes, it’s me,” Paxton responded, stripping out of his outfit. “This is a new type of surprise, ‘Secret.’”

“Do you like it, my Prince?”

“Very much. I have a lot of built up frustration from training, all thanks to you. Be prepared to take responsibility for it.” Paxton hoisted himself onto the bed and crawled over to be above the man.

“Oh, I’m prepared, Your Highness,” the man said with a smirk.

Not to be outdone, Paxton lowered his hips against that silk sheet and thrust forward. They both let out a groan as the silk made the pressure frictionless. Paxton let his bare chest hit the man’s chest and his lips met the man’s lips. Kisses were eagerly shared between the two as Paxton continued to rut against the man.

“M’lord.” Words whispered between gasps. “M’lord, I’m, I’m close.” So was Paxton. So he tossed the silk sheet elsewhere and took both of their straining cocks in one hand. He tugged on them so that their foreskins came down to expose the shining heads. They rubbed against each other as Paxton continued to stroke them. Kisses turned into the press of lips as they both painted their arousal. Then the man was cumming beneath him, his body twitching as his cock spurted warmth other their bodies. The feeling of hot liquid upon his cock made Paxton come undone and he added to the mess between their bodies.

Paxton shimmied down the man, who was currently trying to catch his breath. Licking and sucking up their combined express, Paxton made his way from the chest to the stomach to the pelvis, and finally to his prize. The man’s softening cock was taken into his mouth, and then sucked on, hard.

“M’lord!” the man gasped out as his whole body tended. When Paxton didn’t relinquish his cock, he began pulling and straining at his bindings. “M’lord, please, no! No, stop! M’lord!” Struggle and beg as he may, Paxton knew the man wanted it. If not, they had a word to stop the play. Eventually, the pleading turned into groans, which then turned into moans. At this point Paxton felt the cock in his mouth hardening again, and began to use his tongue. Circling his tongue around the soft bell head had the man thrusting his hips up into Paxton’s face, which was prevented from happening a second time by Paxton’s hands on his hips. The man had never stopped struggling, but this time struggled for a different reason. Soon the cock didn’t fit in Paxton’s mouth but that didn’t deter him. He kept licking and sucking until his lips hurt.

Releasing the cock, Paxton took a moment to admire the hard, wet, twitching organ that pointed towards the man’s navel. The man stopped struggling, going limp as he tried to take in breath. He was absolutely gorgeous.

Paxton nuzzled at the hair at the man’s groin until he could take one of the balls into his mouth, which he sucked on hard. “Careful, my Prince!” Paxton was anything but. He tugged on the ball and licked it until the hairs until the man was squirming once more. Then he let the ball pop out of his mouth, where it immediately nestled close to the man’s body. Paxton took the other ball in his mouth and gave it the same treatment. When he was done, he licked his way lower, down the man’s perineum and then to his puckered hole. The man moaned as Paxton prodded the hole with his tongue, which was loose from prior preparations. Lifting the man’s hips as far up as they would go for a better angle, Paxton set into his meal. The man tasted of pure musk that went straight to Paxton’s brain and groin.

Unable to hold himself back, Paxton lines himself up with the man. Thankfully, the man had prepared himself for this, knowing the prince very well. In one slow, smooth thrust, Paxton buried himself all the way in so that his hips touched the man’s buttocks. Both cried out in pleasure as they joined. Then Paxton started thrusting, wild and hard, and each thrust rubbed his cock against the man’s prostate. It didn’t take long for the man to cry out once again and spill across himself. His passage becoming impossibly tight around Paxton’s thrusting cock sent him over the edge too, and he buried himself as far as possible into the man as his cock twitched and pumped out a load.

Quickly untying the man from his bindings, Paxton pulled the blindfold down to stare into dazed eyes. The man wrapped his arms around Paxton and pulled him down on top of him. They kissed lazily for awhile.

“I love you, Paxton.”

Paxton looked down into eyes that he could never forget. Grey as a winter storm cloud, those soulful eyes stared up at him hopefully. And in the left corner of his right eye, a slice of dark green, like a pine in that winter storm.

“I love you too, Manx.”

—-

Rehabilitation was hard. That first night, Paxton had Manx brought to the same room from earlier to eat dinner alone. But as soon as he had told Manx to “Come, sit,” the man had scuffled over to kneel besides Paxton’s chair. And when Paxton had led the slave to the small room meant for his personal servant, which he didn’t have, Manx had immediately settled into the corner of the room without a blanket. It had taken a few minutes for Paxton to get across the idea that he wanted Manx in the bed, and once in it, Manx had just sat straight up, stiff as a board. And the next morning Paxton had found him in the corner of the room again, cowering.

Sleeping oddities aside, Manx was a very literal and diligent person. Breakfast was served to Paxton’s chambers and Manx always ate all of the food Paxton put on his plate, to the point of throwing up sometimes. After breakfast, Monty would come in and check on Manx’s wounds, which were healing nicely. From there, Paxton would go about his princely duties - which usually consisted of training for his mind and body, through studying or combat practice - while Manx was sent to the kitchens to work with Opal until lunch. Paxton learned, when talking to Opal after a week or so, that Manx was very adept in the kitchen and better than most of her chefs.

For lunch, Paxton also had it delivered to his chambers where he ate with Manx. Again, Manx would eat everything piled onto his plate, so Paxton was careful to not load too much on it. Never did Manx make a move to fill his own plate, even when Paxton once spent the whole meal eating without serving the man. During lunches, Paxton would prod the man with the same questions over and over again, while Manx usually shook his head or stayed silent. He would occasionally try to speak, but when all that came out was a rasp or croak, he would spend the rest of the meal in silence.

After lunch, Paxton would often go with Acor to settle one thing or another. The first day, he had left Manx alone in his chambers, telling the man to “do whatever you please. Just don’t make a mess.” When he had returned around dinner time, his every room except the bedroom had been thoroughly cleaned. From then on, Paxton sent Manx to Mouse, who would have the man run errands or begin his own minor regiment.

Slowly, over the course of a couple weeks, Manx visibly became healthier. Monty had finally removed all the bandages from Manx’s back - when seeing the marks left over, Paxton almost threw up - and the man was gaining a bit of weight. Some color had come into him but it became obvious that he was naturally very pale. His face filled out a bit too. And every night, before sending Manx to bed, Paxton would make Manx look into his eye. His heart would start to pound as he looked into grey eyes that held a sliver of green, intense yet blank.

But every night, perhaps those beautiful eyes looked a little less blank.


End file.
